Callan carried my body into the Great Hall himself. Mud dropped from his boots at every step, and the smell from the shack came through the doors with him.
Conversations died from the entrance to the hearth.
Pack members backed away, hands over their mouths. Some recognized my dress before they saw my face.
Callan laid me on the stone council table, where the feast bowls and wine flagons had stood four nights earlier.
A woman near the hearth began to sob. One sick child called for his mother. She carried him out without once looking away from me.
“We need to identify the poison,” Elder Elwyn said.
He approached from the side, keeping clear of my open eyes. An oilskin pouch still hung from my belt, protected from most of the rain. He worked the swollen knot loose.
Inside was a leathe
